Strong to Lean on You
by lucacat4
Summary: For the lovely Cassodembreankia, requesting a one-shot with the prompt: Angels are no longer allowed to play chess with humans.


Rule #1: Family. 'Nuff said.

Rule #2: Eat pie at any and all possible occasions.

Rule #3: For beer, the same as above. For almost any kind of alcohol, actually.

Rule #4: Angels are no longer allowed to play chess with humans.

Dean doesn't care if it's the freakin' apocalypse or the end of Heaven or what, he needs a break from angels, from being coerced and tricked and forced into doing what they want. He's had enough, ok?! Jeez, can't you give a guy a break?

So. First thing first, he's going to take tonight off. No hunts, no blood, no monsters-if it's evil, then nada, nope, no way, back off. Sam deserves a break too, poor kid, and maybe a haircut. The depressed-and-determined-and-exhausted-mop-head look isn't his best, that's for sure, and Dean is secretly hoping that a pause will loosen that sad light in his eyes, smooth out the tension. Liquor is excellent for doing just that too, of course, so that's definitely on the books.

Dean heaves himself off the squeaky bed and manages to totter into the bathroom, then stumbles back out, grabs his wallet, and heads out. Sam is hunched over the computer, as usual, but he gives Dean a nod as he goes out before lowering his eyes back down to the bright screen.

Two and a half hours later, he sidles through the door, narrowly misses tripping over his own duffle carrier, gingerly circles around a pile of clothes on the floor, and dumps several white plastic bags on the bed. Sam raises an eyebrow, eliciting an elaborate and exaggerated wink from Dean.

"Umm...Dean? What're you doing, man?"

"Sammy, we are going to paaaarrrrttaay. I'm ready! You ready? Da da da daaaaaa, drumroll, pleeaaaze."

"Are you drunk?!" Sam's head snaps up, eyes glaring suspiciously at Dean, but with more amusement than anger. Dean tiptoes over to Sam and carefully lowers himself to the floor, stretching out flat on his back with his head positioned by Sam's feet.

"Y'know, S'mmy, I just want you to _live_ a little, m'kay? You got me? Ya gotta have fun sometimes, all work and no play makes Sam a veeeerrrry dull boy."

Sam pokes Dean gently with the tip of his boot, a grin spreading across his face. "You're completely laid! Dude, what were you thinking about over there? Must've been some pretty heavy thoughts to drink that much."

Dean reverently closes his eyes, folding his arms under his head. "Oh yeah. I was thinking...GINORAMOURNORMOUSLY deep thoughts. Like, so deep, I couldn't even see the bottom. S'not pretty, though. Black. Dark. We need _blue_, S'mmy. I could only find cherry. Th's not blue, th's red. S'rry."

"What?"

Dean's eyes fly open, gazing up at the ceiling, one hand gesturing aimlessly above his head. "D'you like red? I wanna taste it. She said it was somethin', I don't re-cherry? I think it was cherry. Pie. I like pie. Dad didn't buy pie often enough. _Indiana Jones_, though. Yeah."

Sam bursts out laughing, unable to hold it in anymore. It's the first time he's laughed, _really_ laughed in a while, and it doesn't escape Dean even in his current state. Dean's lips twitch, and he rolls his head onto his brother's shoe.

"What made you pick _Indiana Jones_ and cherry pie, of all things? I thought that movie would've been way too kiddy for you, huh, big brother?"

"Sam?"

"What?"

"It's #4."

"Number four…?"

"_Rule_, Sam. Number four: angels don't get to...get to...use you as a bishop anymore."

"What?"

"Not a knight, either. Or king. Queen. I think we're the pawns. God's king. Castiel...s'a rook. M'ybe. I don't know."

"Chess. Oh man, I should really be videotaping this right now. You, talking about chess is just priceless, I bet you've never played a game in your life."

Dean's eyes, which were beginning to drift closed again, snap open.

"S'not a _game_, S'mmy. Life isn't a game. Is. Maybe? Are we chess? I think the angels...play chess. With us. I don't like it. They can't do that to you, 'cause you're my little bro and no one pl's games with myyyyy little bro. 'Cept me. I don't think I know any games. S'rry."

"Dean? It's ok. Don't worry, man, we can fight them, we can stay on top."

Dean's eyes are misty. He rolls onto his stomach, then pushes himself onto his knees, and, with a herculean effort, stands up. He tips slightly on his heels, but doesn't fall. Sam reaches out an arm to grab Dean, but Dean extends a clumsy hand and grasps Sam's wrist.

"S'okay, S'mmy. I got pie. 'N beer. And you. I got you. S'all good."

Sam smiles, the warmth lighting up his eyes and, even though Dean's vision is a little wonky, he can still see that light chasing out the sadness, cause the light is bright and beautiful and rare and very, very precious.

"We're fam'ly, Sam. Gonna be A-ok. Pie. Fam'ly. Beer. No more fr'kin angels. S'all good."

"I know, Dean. You're right."

Maybe Dean drank a little too much and maybe Sam will have to watch the movie by himself because Dean will fall asleep halfway through, head on Sam's shoulder in a gesture of trust and affection that seems unheard of these days, but it's ok. They'll eat some pie and drink some beer and get a little tipsy and a little happy and even a little sad, but it's ok. They're brothers again, independent but fiercely reliant on each other, and that's what matters. As Dean puts it, "s'all good."


End file.
